Do You Believe in Magic?
by bandofinsiders
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has been obsessed with magicians all of his life, but he's never met one quite like Alfred the Amazing. After befriending the young magician Arthur finds himself entangled in a world of magical rivalries and intrigue. As he and Alfred grow even closer, Arthur begins to suspect there's a reason Alfred's magic seems so real... US/UK
1. Clean

Arthur's cheap suit squeaks against the plush chair as he settles in for the show. To his right a woman coughs loudly into her handkerchief, while the man on his left loudly complains about ticket prices. Arthur manages to block them out as the lights come down, the familiar thrill of the theater taking over. He's been here many times, and yet always gets the same goose bumps along his arms and quiver down his spine.

Tonight the feeling is even stronger. Tonight is the first time he'll be watching Alfred the Amazing, the Merlin Club's newest performer and its most talked about in recent years.

When Arthur asked his colleagues to specify what exactly made the young magician different from all the rest, eloquence vanished. "His shows—they're different. It's like they're real!" was a common refrain, yet one he always dismissed. When the lights came on and the curtain closed, even the most skilled magician's show seemed fake, a willing illusion shared between the man on stage and the audience that vanished once they stepped out into the cool night air. And yet almost every night Arthur would seek out these performances and hope for someone whose magic would seem real outside the theater, tricks that could be carried all the way home and pulled out to scrutinize in broad daylight.

Whether Alfred actually fit this description would remain to be seen.

The audience waits for the curtain to part, a few people growing so impatient they begin to check their pocket watches and tap their feet. The curtain; however, never does part. Instead it begins to subtly ripple, like a pond with a single pebble dropped into its center. The impatient members of the audience stop their fidgeting and watch as the ripples grow faster and then, without warning, stop.

The audience holds its breath until the curtain begins moving once more. This time it folds in on itself until the stage is revealed.

The next surprise—only noticeable to a regular like Arthur—is the color of the spotlight. Replacing the customary blinding white lights is a single spotlight aimed at the middle of the stage in alternating blues and reds. Its target remains empty.

Someone in the crowd lets out a strained cry and everyone's necks snap to attention. A man is standing, jumping up and down, but it is not yet apparent why. All is revealed when the blue and red spotlight travels over the audience and illuminates the gentleman's hat floating up and over the crowd as it makes its way to the stage. The man sits down in the face of such futility as his hat bobs and weaves to the platform.

The eyes of the crowd are all so focused on the hat's journey that they do not see the magician step from the shadows onto the stage. He waits patiently for the spotlight to return and for the hat to reach its destination—his outstretched hand.

The magician is younger than Arthur expected, with a more gregarious face. Arthur was more accustomed to newcomers with stony expressions and stilted movements, rookies that tried to build a wall between themselves and the audience, but Alfred was welcoming them all in with open arms and an easy smile.

"A lot of magicians like to pull rabbits from their hats, but I thought I would try it out with someone else's," Alfred says as he slides his gloved fingers over the hat's velvet brim. With mock effort he reaches inside, but instead of pulling out a rabbit the crowd watches as the hat swallows everything up to Alfred's shoulder.

"Now, where did I put that rabbit?" he says, sticking his tongue out and puffing up his cheeks. "I might need two hands for this."

He places the hat on the floor and kneels down next to it, plunging in both arms. Eventually he sticks his head inside as well. A couple of kids in the front row giggle, while the adults crane their necks to try and spot the trap door.

"Well, I couldn't find your rabbit!" Alfred calls out from inside the hat, his voice seeming to echo throughout the crowd.

"But maybe you can," the magician says, pulling his head out of the hat and clapping his gloved hands together. The hat immediately appears on the gentleman's head, the face underneath its brim red and bewildered. The woman next to him shrieks as it begins to quiver and she pulls it off his head, revealing a little white bunny underneath.

"Well, looks like you're a better magician than I am," Alfred says with a wink. The gentleman's face drains of all color.

"Now, what's next? Maybe I ought to take requests," he says smoothly, walking back to the center of the platform. "Let's see, what's another cliché we can tackle tonight, folks?"

The crowd titters as Alfred looks out at them expectantly. Arthur feels his face grow hot even though the magician isn't looking at him, nor addressing him specifically. His blush deepens as the man next to him raises his hand.

"What about them birds?" the man calls out. "Have 'em pop out of your sleeve, somethin' like tha—"

Arthur doesn't want to pry his eyes off the illusionist, but when his neighbor's request ends in a sharp squeal, Arthur turns in his seat. The man next to him has both arms raised like a scarecrow, the sleeves of his jacket bulging in various spots. Eventually a canary pops out from underneath the man's cuff and the crowd watches as the bird flies over to Alfred.

"How many canaries are you hiding in your jacket, sir?"

The crowd begins to count as the birds pop out one by one. Their voices grow louder and louder as the number grows and by the end everyone's throat is hoarse as the last number—fifteen—rings out.

"All right, all right. Don't tire yourselves out," the magician teases. The birds are all perched along his shoulders and arms, but suddenly he claps and they're gone. A shower of gold coins rains upon the stage in their place.

"Thanks for letting me borrow your birds," he says as the coins vanish. The man next to Arthur reaches down to touch the pockets on his jacket now heavy with money. The man lets out a low whistle and glances over at Arthur, the whites of his eyes on full display.

"Now how about a volunteer? You won't be paid, unfortunately," the illusionist calls out.

The kids in the audience scramble to their feet and wave their hands in the air wildly, several hopping from foot to foot. But Alfred's eyes bypass all the children. Instead they fall squarely upon Arthur.

"Ah, yes, the thick-browed gentleman giving me a peculiar look. You're up," he says, beckoning Arthur with a slim gloved finger, but Arthur remains motionless in his seat.

"No? Oh, but it'll be fun! And if you don't come willingly, I'll just have to transport you here myself," Alfred says as he rubs his hands together. Arthur lingers in the audience, his face pale and his mouth slightly agape, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on Alfred.

And then, suddenly, it's not.

Arthur is under the watch of the blue and red spotlight, facing the audience. It was an instantaneous journey from his chair to the stage, not one of trapdoors or clever obfuscation. His colleagues were right—this man's magic was real, or at least it certainly felt so.

"Now, ladies and gentleman, you'll see this man's visage morph before your very eyes! Gone will be that petulant scowl, those heavy brows…", Arthur looks up at the grandstanding magician and shoots him an icy look, "…replaced instead by this!"

Arthur feels his face grow warm—not from the spotlight, nor from embarrassment. It's a dull and pleasant warmth, like he's lying near the dying embers of a fire. He closes his eyes as he fights the urge to nod off. The collective gasp of the audience shocks him awake.

"How's that for an improvement?" Alfred calls out, tossing a small mirror onto Arthur's lap. "Too bad it can't be like this all the time—well, actually I suppose it could…" the illusionist says, his voice trailing off as his eyes scan the audience. No one is looking at him or listening to him. They're all staring at the man onstage whose morphed before their very eyes.

Arthur's hands shake as he lifts the mirror to his face.

In the reflection he sees Alfred—dark blond hair, blue eyes, wire spectacles. He lifts a hand to his face and feels the fabric of a glove. "A nice touch," he whispers so quietly only the magician can hear him, but Alfred doesn't reply.

"Now, what else can I do with him folks? Maybe a little levitation?" As Alfred says the words, Arthur begins to rise from his chair. A woman in the audience screams and a few men hoot and holler. Arthur watches his legs dangle beneath him like a marionette.

The magician turns his back on the audience, his attention fully on Arthur. "You afraid of heights?" he asks, his palms balled into fists. Arthur shakes his head, but he feels his body being lowered back to the chair. The familiar warmth from earlier returns to Arthur's face and he guesses that Alfred restored him to his former appearance.

"Everyone give a hand to my lovely assistant!" the illusionist exclaims, turning on his heel to face the audience once more. The crowd erupts into applause, a few people even rising to their feet. Arthur blinks and suddenly he is back in his chair surrounded by standing ovations. He rises to his feet as well.

"Unfortunately, it's time for me to go, but have no worries! The Great Gilbert is up next," Alfred announces as he waves to the crowd and takes a deep bow. The spotlight begins to change rapidly—red and blue, red and blue. It flashes so quickly that it takes the crowd awhile to realize that Alfred the Amazing has disappeared.

* * *

**A/N: I meant to put this up a long time ago, but I kept editing it and I'm still not satisfied. D: But I promised to start a new AU, so here it is! Also I'm not too sure of the categories. Is magic supernatural, or fantasy?**


	2. Force

Standing outside the performers' dressing room was not a conscious decision Arthur Kirkland made. When the Great Gilbert bounded onstage, Arthur suddenly felt the compulsion to leave. He found himself speeding past the doorman and into the lobby, his feet leading him to an unmarked door that then led him into a dark hallway— all before the Great Gilbert had even spoken a single word.

As a frequent patron of the Merlin Club, and a friend (of sorts) to its owner, Arthur knew all of its little tricks. The hallway was lined with many false doors, most of them opening to the club's brick wall. The dressing room was the very last room on the right and it was that room that Arthur was now standing outside as he debated whether or not to knock.

There were many reasons Arthur thought he shouldn't—perhaps Alfred would be tired after his performance and find having a guest an annoyance? Or maybe in real-life the magician was an incorrigible jerk? But in a burst of confidence, these excuses dissipate and Arthur feels his knuckles hit the wooden door.

"Looking for someone?"

Arthur turns and finds himself face-to-face with Alfred the Amazing. The magician seems younger in person and his voice sounds just slightly higher.

Before Arthur can respond, Alfred adds, "I knew you'd come." As he speaks, the door to the dressing room swings open without either of them touching the knob.

Alfred breezes past Arthur and plops down onto the sofa in the middle of the room. Arthur follows him inside, although the magician doesn't seem to notice. Instead Alfred begins to methodically remove food from the brown paper bag he's clutching.

"I hope you don't mind, I haven't eaten yet," Alfred explains, gesturing towards the food laid out on the couch.

Arthur counts at least three different sandwiches. Before he can stop himself, he blurts, "Is that all for you?"

Alfred laughs. "I eat a lot. But if you're hungry, you can have one, too." He stacks the sandwiches on his lap and gestures for Arthur to take a seat. The Briton nervously perches on the very edge of the cushion, his back ramrod straight.

"So, my thick-browed volunteer," Alfred says, tossing a sandwich to Arthur, "what's your real name?"

Arthur pauses from unwrapping his sandwich, which is overstuffed with cucumbers and cream cheese, and looks up. "My name is Arthur Kirkland."

"I'm Alfred Jones… but you can call me Alfred the Amazing, if you want to," Alfred replies with a grin before attacking his sandwich.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I think I'll pass."

The pair sit in silence for a minute as Alfred continues to take giant bites of his sandwich. Arthur watches him silently, ignoring his own sandwich.

"Mr. Jones, I don't mean to interrupt you," Arthur begins as soon as Alfred polishes off his first sandwich. "But I just wanted to tell you that your show was… it was absolutely…" Arthur searches for the right word, but it eludes him. _Fantastic? One-of-a-kind? Legendary? _

"It was very well done," Arthur finishes and the room seems to deflate.

"Well done?"

"Y-yes… Extremely so."

Alfred claps a hand against Arthur's shoulder and laughs once more. "Thank you, Artie."

Arthur wants to balk at the creation of a new nickname from this near-stranger, but before he can complain Alfred springs to his feet and strides over to a counter in the corner of the room.

"Want a drink?" Alfred asks.

"A drink?"

"Don't worry, it's just juice. I'm not a bootlegger," Alfred says with a wink.

Arthur replies hurriedly, a blush creeping across his face, "I didn't think you were."

"Is pineapple okay?"

"Fine. That would be fine."

Alfred returns with two mismatched glasses—one champagne flute and one coffee mug—full of dark yellow juice. Arthur takes the flute into his hand, his sandwich still balanced on his knee.

"So, Artie, why aren't you watching the Great Gilbert?" Alfred asks, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth.

Arthur scoffs after taking a sip of the slightly tart juice. "I've seen his show before. He's an amateur. Especially—"

"—Compared to me?"

"All right, don't let your head get any bigger."

Alfred laughs and stretches his legs out before him. "I had a trick like that once. I made a guy's head look as big as a lollipop."

"How'd you do it?" Arthur asks, swishing his juice around in the champagne flute.

"A magician never reveals his secrets. You know that."

"I do," Arthur says, a smirk curling at his lip, "but with the way you like to gloat, I thought you'd be an exception."

"Ouch."

Arthur chuckles and finally allows himself to relax a little, his back actually touching one of the couch's cushions.

"So, where are you from, Artie?" Alfred asks after draining his mug. "And does everyone there sit like you do?"

Arthur scowls and slouches a bit more in response. "I'm from England," he replies. "But I've lived here in New York a very long time. I moved here for university."

"Really?" Alfred says, placing his glass in a precarious position on the sofa's armrest. "A college man?"

"That's right."

"So what are you doing hanging out in magic clubs all the time?"

Arthur frowns, his brows knitting together. "I don't come here _that _often."

"Enough to know the way to the dressing room."

"Well, the owner of the club showed me a long time ago," Arthur explains. "When I got to New York, he was the first friend I made."

"Roderich?"

"That's the one, yes."

"When I first met him, I never would've pegged him for a man that would own a place like this," Alfred says, a pensive look coloring his face.

"Looks can be deceiving."

Alfred laughs and adjusts his glasses. "And how."

"So where are you from, Alfred the Amazing?" Arthur asks in an attempt to steer the conversation away from his past. "And is everyone there so hospitable to strangers?"

"Me?" Alfred says, an eyebrow quirking. "Well, I've been traveling ever since I was young. In fact, I've been to every state in the union. Just call me Mister America!"

"Well, where were you last?"

Alfred's face breaks out in a huge grin. "The Big Easy! New Orleans. Tons of great magicians there—none like me, of course."

"Of course."

"Now that place has hospitality, if that's what you're looking for."

Arthur laughs. "New York has enough hospitality for me, thanks."

"You're probably the only one in this city who thinks that."

Arthur shrugs and drains his juice. "The city's been good enough to me, especially after the war."

"Ah."

The two men fall silent as images of faraway battlefields filter through their thoughts and Arthur begins to regret his little offhand remark.

"I'll take that from you," Alfred says quietly, loosening the champagne flute from Arthur's grasp. "I noticed that you didn't finish your sandwich."

"So I haven't," Arthur says, his gaze falling upon the sandwich.

"You didn't like it?"

"Well," Arthur says, another smirk forming, "it's clear your talent lies in magic, not cooking."

"Yeah? You think you could put together a better sandwich?"

"Of course," Arthur says with a shrug.

Alfred smiles, his eyes lighting up with an idea. "You're right. The sandwiches I made weren't very good. Of course, It didn't help that they'd been sitting on my counter for a few days…"

Arthur sticks his tongue out and begins gagging. "What?!"

"I know a place we can get some terrific food, though," Alfred continues, ignoring the disgusted look on Arthur's face.

Arthur frowns. "And that would be?"

Alfred raises a hand. "First, I need to know—are you afraid of cops, Artie?"

Arthur considers the question for a moment, his heart beating just a little bit faster, before finally answering, "Not if I haven't done anything wrong."

The magician merely smiles as he places his gloves back on and grabs his coat. Alfred walks over to the door and waits in its frame expectantly.

The voice in Arthur's head tries to reason with him very gently, telling him it's probably not a good idea to go off with a relative stranger who seems just a tad bit too excitable— especially if the police could be involved. But his feet once again propel him towards the door and another voice—one that sounds a bit like Alfred—tells him something quite different: that wherever the magician goes, Arthur should follow.

"Where are we going, anyways?" Arthur asks, his face flushing as he accidentally brushes Alfred's arm on the way out.

Alfred smiles, his eyes gleaming. "Terrible Ivan's."

Arthur gulps as they make their way through the dark hallway. "Well, that sounds promising."

* * *

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the gap between chapters, I've been traveling a lot. Thanks to everyone who favorited/followed/reviewed! :) It means a lot. **

**I kinda forgot to mention in the summary that this'll take place during an alternate version of the 1920s. Don't worry, I'm not going to go overboard with slang! (Even though I bookmarked a website that lists a ton of awesome slang words ;3) I just thought it would be a neat backdrop for all of the magical... shenanigans.**


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